


Mile High Rivals

by AzulMountain



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adultry, Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe, Anal, Blow Jobs, Double Penetration, Exhibitionism, Flight Attendants, Hunters, Infighting, M/M, Mild Blood, Molestation, Non-Consensual Violence, Post Hale Fire, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Werewolf Cub-Erica, Werewolf Cub-Isaac, Werewolf Toddler-Lydia, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-11 06:44:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2057922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AzulMountain/pseuds/AzulMountain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Rival werewolf suitors, Derek and Peter Hale, fight to claim Flight Attendant Stilinski]  plus  [Chris Argent's one sided love]  plus  [Cock-blocked Pilot Scott McCall]  plus  [Pissed Chief Pursuer Allison Argent and her crazy hunter mother]  EQUALS  [Poor unfortunate Stiles, stuck thirty thousand feet above the ground in the middle of a dangerous tug of war/target practice]</p><p>OR</p><p>The story about how Stiles' day continues to get worse when the Hale pack boards his flight and comes face to face with fellow passengers, the Argent family. Werewolf/Hunter conflict midair with multiple memberships to the Mile High Club.</p><p>And one super irritated flight attendant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Concourse C

**Author's Note:**

> A quick note: if you have read Mile High Stiles, the first chapter is similar to the beginning of that story. Originally I wrote Rivals as a redo for that story, but it seemed wrong to just erase the whole story so close to its end. So instead, I finished that one and started a different one. This story branched out of the same concept and became its own. Sorry for the confusion. It’s a long slow first chapter, but after that things pick up. Poor Stiles. Please let me know what you guys think/ like/don't like. I appreciate the comments. Enjoy-AzulMountain

The man takes one brief look at his uniform and throws out an arm to catch him in the chest with a breath stopping block.  “Here hold this!”

Stiles fumbles awkwardly to get his arm out from under his folded winter coat and the other dislodged from the grip of his wheeling carry-on to catch the object the man practically throws at him. The brown haired man is already half way up the escalator at a full sprint, before Stiles can question the legitimacy of the situation. His brain is streaming the drone of security reminders to not accept items from strangers in the airport, when an irritated squawk interrupts his train of thought. He almost drops the mystery package in surprise and just manages to tilt his head back in time as a tiny shoe misses his chin. Scrambling in true Stilinski fashion, he jumbles the living being until the bundle’s business side is up, and dangerous flailing legs down.

Downy soft strands of strawberry-blonde hair flop against his shoulder and part to show tiny cheeks flushed from being held upside-down too long. Pouting lips shift from indignation to blank confusion as the toddler looks around. The child’s wide green eyes narrow in intelligent calculation when she realizes she is in the hands of a stranger.

Stiles _does not_ flinch the second the toddler’s glare turns harsh. Her angry eyebrows express what eludes her two-year-old language ability. In clear English, by a mere flex of the dainty strawberry-blonde brow, she manages to say: _What the hell is going on? Where is my daddy? Who the **bleep** are you? How dare you hold me like that? I will banshee scream your ass to the next millennium, if I have to. _ Sure Stiles may have made it all up, but it seems to fit the dual nature of the scary cherub in his arms.

To Stiles, the supersonic ability all children exhibit in a fit is only explainable as a super power or demonic possession. “Your eyebrows are supernatural, Miss Ginger.” He mumbles to the angry demon currently inhabiting the child’s eyebrows.

It’s just his imagination that her soft green eyes flicker gold as her lip curls to show a wicked sharp baby tooth. Stiles’ eyes go wide like an owl from the clear threat. Just in case she decides to have a go, he jerks her quickly to an arm’s length away from his vulnerable spots.

She snarls at him for the rough treatment. His rude behavior is justified because Stiles is all defense around toddlers with abnormally sharp canines. She, however, brilliantly counters his maneuver by tearing her ridiculously sharp nails through his work shirt, until she punctures his bare wrists. Stiles braces against the pain and reminds himself that throwing a child is wrong, even if that child is probably possessed.

Stiles caves to her unnerving challenge and apologizes profusely, “Sorry, Miss Strawberry-blonde, goddess among mortals, I have wronged you, your eyebrows, and your beautiful soft hair. I ask you to forgive this unworthy buffoon.”

Her supernatural eyebrows peak in satisfaction for Stiles’ acquiescence, speaking a disturbing volume of trash-talk by a two year old, he ever cared to invent. A tiny smirk hides her fang away and she sweetly removes her nails from his skin. Stiles winces when he sees little droplets of his blood glistening on the tips of her round nails. ‘God, would someone please give this kid’s nails a trim? How could T.S.A. miss those weapons?’

This mini goddess before him is absolutely terrifying. Envisioning his body bent in votive position to gratify her need to further humiliate him, sends shudders through his body. Luckily Stiles need not humiliate himself because her attention shifts from him. She cocks her head to the side and listens to something beyond the hustle of the train platform.

Rattled by the unnatural depth of intelligence this strawberry-blonde toddler exhibits, Stiles can barely focus on his surroundings. Other than a large amount of travelers standing around the train platform, he doesn’t notice anything unusual. His bemused face must settle something for the toddler because her punishing smirk evaporates and is replaced by a patronizing look for the lesser being in front of her.

She yawns and motions with her tiny arms to be held closer. While still weary of her flesh-piercing capability and her willingness to use it, he rationalizes his reluctance to cuddle her is more about established precedence between all children and himself. He gets asked to hold a lot kids in his line of work and almost all of those kids start screaming right away. So, Stiles never actually gets beyond the ear shattering torture part. Why this little girl isn't keeping to the established norm mystifies him, but if she can make peace with his inept handling, Stiles can try and be amiable to her. 

Stiles blinks stupidly down at the temperamental child that appears to be preparing to nap on him. He fidgets like he always does, not quite holding still enough to her standards. A soft growl has him quickly contorting to better support her. But he remains tense like he is holding live ammunition or a small wolverine, instead of a human being. Impatient eyes blink up at him and the mini goddess demands her comfort with a pout.  Her lips quiver threateningly like she is going to tear open the skies with her supersonic-banshee power any minute. Threat of a world ending tantrum clear, Stiles caves again. He breathes deeply, puts all thoughts of sharp objects out of his mind, and relaxes enough for the child to lay her head onto his chest in won peace. 

Tiny snot bubbles pop against his chest, heart melting from the warm press of her sleeping form. Her weight seems strangely right against him like she always belonged. Her quick trust does wonders for his self-confidence and he gathers her closer, so she can rest more comfortably. A contented yip sleepily passes her tiny red rose lips and he smiles down at his charge, petting her soft hair. Even the constant sarcastic commentary of the young unattached male part of his brain is drowned out. Her quiet puffs are far more important than the ever nagging voice, ‘Great now the germ factory is going give me her sniffles and I cannot afford to take more time off.’

Denver Bronco quarterback Peyton Manning’s automated voice blares out over the speakers, “You are delaying the departure of the train, please keep clear.”

Stiles jumps into motion, shifting the sleeping child to his side, so he can grab his rolling overnight bag. Promptly following the smart train’s warning, the train door closes and departs from the Denver International Airport’s Concourse C.

The flight attendant looks around to the sea of faces, hoping the man who tossed his child at him like luggage has returned. Given that no one has stepped forward, he huffs out in exasperation like the toddler and resolves to wait.

If Stiles hadn’t been so dumbfounded by the last couple minutes, he clearly would have noticed the pitched wails of glee echoing through the open concourse atrium. Now that his nerves have settled, he almost trips over his overnight bag as a splitting mad giggle erupts just over his head. Glancing up, he can only see the marbled overhang above the train door, so he backs up awkwardly with his neck careened to watch the ledge that everyone else has their eyes on.

His hand comes to support the back of the sleeping toddler as he stares open jawed at a blonde blur trampling through the thick overgrowth of the concourse garden. From his lower vantage he can barely see the heads of darting figures as a blonde child wildly dodges her caretakers and rampages through the usually inaccessible garden.

Concerned onlookers on all levels yell in collective alarm as the child trips on the stone design and she falls to the lower marble ledge. Laughing as she catches her breath, the child rolls to her side to get up and continue her merry game, but she misplaces her foot and begins to tip over the marble ledge. She manages to catch hold of the corner at the last second and merely giggles. Clearly, she holds no fear that her tiny body dangles twenty feet above the train level’s hard marble tile floor. The girl, no older than six or seven, looks down like she is contemplating the drop, causing people to rush below her to prepare to catch the mischievous child.

Before she has a chance to let go and continue her game (likely in the next life), a form creeps over the edge and snatches her by her dangling arm and lifts her back up over the ledge. She yelps in surprise having not heard her pursuer’s approach and squirms within her captor’s hold, eyes shut tight. She laughs like the big monster has caught her and now she’ll be tickled. Finally, her eyes open and all her fun promptly deflates. When the blonde recognizes the man, she screams in terror.

Stiles recognizes him too. Because it is the same man who threw the strawberry-blonde toddler with the supernatural brows into his arms.

Stiles’ eyes lock on the man, whose indeterminable age could place him between mid-thirties to forty-something. He only saw the man’s back from a distance earlier, so Stiles tells himself that his stare roving over the man’s body is solely for identification purposes to return the strawberry-blonde. He is not kidding anyone. He continues to eye rape the perfect human specimen above him. Whose concentration is solely on chastising the child he rescued, unaware of the crowd he has captivated. Given the whispers among the crowd and the snapshot click of cell phone cameras, Stiles is not the only one enjoying the view.

The man above him dominates this bizarre airport scene. He is a man of distinction. Stiles’ vantage point of the man’s fit ass and muscled thighs in those sinfully tight jeans, his lean upper body -unfairly hidden under a dress shirt and sports jacket-, and his suave facial features, the man’s entire demeanor radiates confidence, power, and wealth. If his fine leather boots says anything, but Stiles’ deflated ego refuses to acknowledge the man’s fine taste.

Stiles’ libido renders him a gapping peon among the mass of travelers clapping for the hero, the mouth-watering-handsome hero, and it is too much for Stiles. A deliciously hot shudder strums from the base of his spine all the way to the crown of his head. His jaw falls open and he is not drooling, he is _not_. The spot on his uniform is from the sleeping snot machine… er… the precious child whose daddy is apparently a demigod.

A cold prickle cuts through his overheated body; signaled by the tingle of hair on the back of his neck. It’s a sensation that Stiles has long come to trust. His desire for this demigod is at war with his Stilinski-spidey-senses. And through the haze of Stiles’ wettest dreams come true, Stiles recognizes that the thudding of his heartbeat is racing, not in passion, but in fear.

This man is dangerous.

There is a second nature behind his finely tailored facade, something primal that has Stiles on edge. Stiles bites inner cheek to clear the remainder of his lusty thoughts. With Sheriff trained observation skills, sharpened by years of living with his father, Stiles begins to see what has him on edge: the man’s irate glare at the defiant child, his tightening grip over the child’s arm, resulting in the barely audible whine from the disciplined child, and then thin trickles of blood wrap around the child’s elbow. A low threatening growl rolls out of the man’s chest and Stiles swears the strawberry-blonde toddler in his arms, shudders just as violently as the blonde standing in the garden above. Judging by the simpering whine from the six-year-old child and her limp downcast gaze, he knows it’s not his imagination. He is no hero to Stiles. Not anymore. He is a monster for punishing a child to the point she bleeds. And yet the clapping and cheering continues. No one else seems to notice what he is.

Stiles secures his grip around the toddler, feeling a fierce need to protect. He gently soothes away her shivers by humming his mother’s lullaby, until she settles peacefully against his booming heart. As if the man can sense the shift of Stiles’ thoughts, his domineering gaze turns away from the subdued child in his grip and meets Stiles’ eyes with a flash of gold. Stiles quickly dismisses the uncanny effect, as a reflected light in the atrium. Heat from the man’s fiery gaze challenges Stiles. Prove him a monster, here in front of this adoring crowd.

Refusing to cower under the intense rage barely hidden in the man’s wild look, Stiles holds his opponent with a cold stare of his own. For what seems like minutes, only seconds pass. Stiles’ honey amber eyes have only ever held a soft kindle of amusement for the world. But the focused iciness he directs into this monster’s madness is so pure and powerful, that the monster in the man has to take a step a back.

Stiles knows he has won.

The man diverts his gaze to the side and shakes his head to clear his foul mood. Clear light blue eyes meet Stiles’ again. Gone is the uncontrolled beast, instead what remains is a different type of predator; one that honestly frightens Stiles more.

Stiles reads wile calculation, a smidgen of respect and something else in the man’s eyes and it makes his heart thud. This is a man capable of anything and everything, to get what he wants.

Blushing scarlet, Stiles knows he has read this man’s desires correctly. He wants Stiles.

Irrepressible heat licks up his spine as his stomach tightens pleasurably at the raw sexual prowess promised in the heated look. The stranger’s eyes trace paths, soon sensuous touches will journey. Stiles begins panting in the middle of the train platform with a desire so deep, it’s as if his soul is gravitating to this man.

_Train… Public_ … Stiles blinks and remembers that he is in public, essentially eye fucking with a stranger. He growls in irritation from his body’s inappropriate reaction to this man. Biting painfully on his lower lip to break out of his tempter’s spell, he unwittingly casts one of his own. It makes this predator draw a sudden breath in gulping need. Knowing amusement that he isn’t the only one caught in the moment, cracks Stiles’ frustrated scowl and he does it again. His reward is a carnal whine.

‘The power to bring kings to their knees and give me head,’ Stiles need flares again at the idea of a little indecent exposure and decides to play.

He rolls his tongue over his flushed lips in a sultry caress, causing the man to drop the blonde child’s arm and step forward like he is about to jump the two stories down to taste Stiles. And that’s when they both remember the children between them. His satisfaction for having unraveled the man, doesn’t even register. Any semblance of erotic desire shared between them is shattered by this reminder.

Stiles cold anger returns for the cowed child with dry blood at her elbow. Hurt by the very man, who almost had him sinking to his knees with ardor, ready and willing in an airport. Stiles has never experienced such an intense connection to a man or woman in all his relationships. _God_ , _the possibilities this man could bring to fruition._ Stiles is rightfully shaken by this man’s presence. He is not sure he likes what this man can do to him, will do with him, if that stare from before still means anything.

When he finally glimpses from the tear tracks lining the cheeks of the blonde in red bow pigtails, Stiles is dumbfounded by the look on the other man’s face. A glistening trail of tears matches the child’s face at his side. Unadulterated grief marks the man’s face as he stares down at Stiles and his daughter.

‘Whoa, he’s flipping manic. What a lunatic, but a strikingly hot lunatic.’

The man finally notices Stiles watching him and he wipes at his stricken face. He actually looks startled that his fingers meet wet and studies the droplet like it’s the last freaking wonder of the world; amazed that it was discovered on his face. He kisses the salt off the digit, face closed off again, savoring whatever meaning this tear holds for him and lets it evaporate on his lips.

When he finally focuses back at Stiles, his face is calm. It’s warm even. A genuine smile illuminates clear blue eyes and Stiles can only see promises in them. Good things; the younger man wants to fall with this man, but something is keeping him tethered. He feels this man alone is not enough... 

A beautiful young woman appears behind the man and reaches a manicured hand over his shoulder to pull the older man back from the ledge. She has shouldered the young girl, who nuzzles desperately into her sweater for comfort. Her brown eyes glance briefly at Stiles below and then she leans in to whisper into the guy’s ear. Her familiar touch leads Stiles’ overstimulated mind to a dark conclusion fast.

_The man is married._

This realization must paint grim picture because the man’s expression of quiet peace shatters into poorly masked confusion and then terror. The man’s head whips to behind him. He grunts something to his wife, before turning back to Stiles. He wants to speak to Stiles, but the woman nudges him hard to get moving from the atrium garden.

Whether the man’s terror originates from being caught by his younger wife for his treacherous thoughts, for the foreboding presence of the many uniformed security lining the atrium -just waiting for him to come away from the ledge and explain the disturbance-, or the disturbing look of Stiles’ interest deflating, Stiles doesn’t stand around to find out. It’s best to return the strawberry-blonde bundle to the man, before the jerk goes to jail or suffers whatever tortures the hyper-vigilant-bored T.S.A. cook up for defiling the airport’s sanctity.

Willing his body to numb the aching feeling of a missed destiny, he puts the bizarre meeting behind him. He needs to focus on why he is here in the first place, his job. Turning his free wrist over to checks the time and is grateful that at least he is not late. He has forty-five minutes to get to the pre-flight safety meeting with the other air attendants, pilots, and engineers. It’s just enough time to catch up with his favorite captain and best friend at the Dunkin’ Donuts.

Scott claims he broke Stiles record of the number of doughnut holes he could stack vertically with an improved technique last week in Washington-Dulles. The blurry photo is debatable, so Stiles won’t accept the loss of his throne. It will be just the thing he needs to take his mind off all this and probably get them banned from another airport restaurant for their antics.

He wobbles onto the moving step and grips the rail securely, riding the split level escalator up to where the police have undoubtedly detained the father of the child in his arms. Now that Stiles won’t be getting the man’s phone number because of the “M” word, he is eager to get this chore over.

He is so focused making it off the death trap safely with a child in his hands, a cumbersome winter coat, and luggage, that he barely has time to look up before a huge mass of unmovable muscle blocks his path. Stiles tilts backwards from the force of the collision. His fall is halted momentarily by the person caught behind him. She manages to deflect his falling weight to the side, before he smashes them both to the ground.

Managing to twist and land on his back, he saves the toddler the uncomfortable floor-Stiles sandwich that no doubt would have injured her. Everyone else on the busy escalator behind him tries to react to the pinch, but most get tangled in the pile up and chaos ensues. Stiles instinctively curls to protect the sleeping child in his arms from the people scrambling over him. He spots an obese man tumbling his way, and there is nothing Stiles can do, but brace for impact. Only no collision comes because he is jerked out of harm’s way at the last moment. He slides smoothly across the polished floor, until he is blocking the empty ‘down’ side escalator.

Just as he is about to thank his savior, he feels the warm weight of the child napping on his shoulder torn from his grasp. “What the hell do you think you are doing?” Stiles screams at the man.

This stranger has the little girl and all Stiles can think is that he has to save her. He stumbles up, slipping on his fallen coat, and spins right into the hunk of muscle that caused the accident in the first place. A frightening growl erupts out of the man at Stiles’ contact to his person. Stiles looks up into a face that contorts to the shape of nightmares and dismisses the illusion as effect of adrenalin coursing into his veins.

For a moment everyone is frozen and an eerie silence fills the space after the rumbling echo dampens. The surrounding travelers, still recovering from the escalator accident, turn to watch the confrontation between the two men. One is Adonis reborn, with two children: a strawberry-blonde held protectively to his hardened chest and at his side a golden-brown curled preteen boy. The other man is Stiles: lean-mean-sarcastic machine, who is clumsily struggling to free his shoe from the parka on the floor.

Finally free, Stiles pushes away from the man’s hard chest, careful not to hit the toddler. She is now situated quite contentedly in the man’s bulging arms and nuzzles his neck in greeting. She is actually cooing, but none of this registers to Stiles. He is too busy willing his legs to stop trying to shake out from under him as he gapes in fear and wonder at the second equally-gorgeous and frightening man he has seen today.

Foolishly ignoring his haywire Stilinski-spidey-senses, he screams into the man’s face again. “Give her back!”

Smoldering lava burns into Stiles’ mind as he meets the man’s eyes in challenge. Tall, dark, and clearly a god in Stiles’ mortal hell, the man drops his hand from the boy’s white knuckle grip and slams his palm into Stiles’ chest. The younger man goes flying backwards into the safety glass railing and smacks his head against the chrome finish of the escalator casing on his way down to the hard floor, streaking it red. Spider-cracks around the impact destroy the panel Stiles’ disoriented body rests against. The support begins to give way, and Stiles is practically dangling over the ledge.

But not for long because the man grabs him from the floor, saving him certain death from the fall to the floor below, and raises him off the ground with one arm. He shakes him violently in time to each word he speaks, “Give her back? You’re the fucking kidnapper. You. Took. Her!”

Of course at this point, Stiles is barely conscious and the asshole’s accusation of being a kidnapper buzzes harmlessly in the background. Stiles’ all-consuming headache of awesomeness is his only concern. He doesn’t even register when strong hands slide around his chest, ease him out of the brute’s grip and delicately lower him to the cold tile floor. The person settles him carefully into recovery position, while blurs dart in and out of his field of vision flashing irritatingly bright lights into his likely mismatched pupils.

“Uuuuuur… ouchies… mud-er fuu-in ass-shole.” Stiles slack tongue slurs through the words and the dark blur above him frowns.

The person turns and says something over his shoulder to a beautiful blurry brunet in a deep soothing voice. He sounds like a muffled upright bass to Stiles, so it’s impossible to catch the words that have the two blurs looking nervous. A hurried whispered conversation later, Stiles feels the bass man shift to kneel by Stiles’ injured head. Strong hands cups the back of his neck, below his head injury. They are hot, pushing the chill from lying on the airport tile away. The brunet hands Stiles’ heavy winter coat to the dark blur and he drapes it over Stiles’ chest and neck. The parka is arranged to screen the man’s arm from the many people in the vicinity, hiding whatever delicious thing the man is doing to zap his pain away. Stiles moans in relief and idly thinks that nothing short of a super power could make his serious head injury feel like a common low grade headache.

Now that the pain has dampened and his senses are returning to normal, curiosity gets the better of him. He wants to see this secret technique. Stiles focuses cross-eyed on the man’s arms at the end of his chin, and sees the skin is crawling with black veins. “What’s hap’ning?”

“Concussion.” The clear bass voice answers. The black squiggles stop. The man’s illuminated gold eyes shift a dull brown as they meet Stiles’.

_Understandable_. He was thrown into a three inch thick pane of glass and an escalator, his hearing is off, and he is slurring his words. But Stiles doesn’t think hallucinations are a symptom of a concussion. That is more along the line of major head trauma, which is also understandable because _he was thrown into a fucking escalator_. So he clarifies for the man, “Your arm was pulsing.”

“Concussion.” The guy curtly replies ending their discussion, but flashes a knowing smile. Stiles decides to let it go because the oddly familiar black man is a healing miracle and everyone has their secrets.

“How are you feeling?” An angelic voice asks from above. He looks away from the non-hallucination to where the beautiful brunet is standing.

Because sympathy is an open path for flirtation in Stiles’ book and it’s not above him to milk this circumstance for all he can to happily end his sad dry streak, Stiles prepares some witty remark to woo the brunet angel. But then he recognizes the blonde wild child in her arms and bites back his angry curse.

_Fuck my life._

The angel is the jerk’s wife. That means the grunting men in his periphery are not a result of injury induced double vision, but are actually two related demigods hell-bent on fucking with Stiles’ day.

“Great,” He coolly replies, unjustly angry at her for taking away something he never had to begin with and will never have. Stress, pain, and the volume of emo-vomit Stiles is spewing from his involuntary ride on their roller-coaster of mixed signals are all bundled into his reply. He feels satisfied that she flinches back from him.

The blonde girl watching him sticks her tongue out, “You’re mean.”

Stiles is child enough to return the gesture and feels guilt immediately. They are helping him; he realizes he is being a dick. Turning to the man at his side, he tries to add warmth he doesn’t quite feel to his voice, “Thanks for the ... thanks,” he finishes lamely. And all three adults remain silent.

The boy, from before Stiles was thrown into a fucking escalator, walks over to Stiles’ pity party. He has his hoody synched as tight it can, until only his honey eyes and his nose poke through. Embarrassingly watching the chaos surrounding him, he whispers through his sweatshirt, “Cora, what is going on? Why are you helping the kidnapper? Derek says he took Lydia, but her dad says it’s not true, and the cops said we aren’t going to make our flight now. And all I wanted was to go to the bathroom.” The boy’s voice lifts as he whines, clearly still needing the facility. “I was next in line too, but then Derek said we had to leave because my sister was acting up, and I could wait. Then we rushed out to help you, but Lydia was right there with him and Derek freaked out.”

Cora doesn’t get to answer the boy’s question because the blonde’s nose starts twitching and she lunges sideways from the woman’s hip to make a grab at the fast food bag the boy holds.

“Hey, that’s mine!” The preteen whines and clutches the greasy snack to his hoody.

“Erica Hale, leave your brother’s food alone,” she chastises the child.

Stiles’ eyebrows draw down in confusion. That is a huge bag of fast food for one skinny preteen. Sure Stiles could pack a few burgers at his age, but that kid has like ten burgers in the paper sack. Things aren’t adding up with this crew. The thin brunet wasn’t even knocked off balance from the blonde’s wild acrobatics. Plus, she manages the flailing blonde with just one arm, in six inch heeled boots, no less. ‘Wow wonder mom, capable and stylish. Lucky Jerk,’ Stiles sarcasm seems to be back online after the accident.

“Yes, Aunty Cora.” The blonde girl, apparently named Erica, still squirms trying to grab the giant bag, despite her answer. The brother growls and hunching protectively against any further raids like an animal.

Cora finally has had enough and grabs Erica’s chin, and forces her to look into the brunet’s eyes. She growls at the child, until Erica whimpers and curls her arms around the woman’s neck. When Erica starts nuzzling Cora with her face, the woman’s frustrated growl ends, and the group relaxes.

_O.K. Super weird family dynamics. What is with these people and all the growling?_ Stiles really isn’t sure what to think. Apparently, all the people he meets today have anger/communication issues. Not all that different compared to Stiles’ everyday life working for an airline. But the nonhuman level of interaction exhibited by this group, is enough to think that he has become an ethologist, instead of a flight attendant.

“This is why we should never fly.” Cora motions to the chaos her apparent relations have caused.

Groups of hassled travelers stand around waiting to be interviewed by security regarding the two events. Paramedics assist with minor injuries from the pile up and airport officials oversee that the scattered personal belongings are returned to the proper owners. Members of the janitorial staff work to secure the gaping hole in the glass, cleaning up Stiles’ blood he carelessly left behind. Mechanics work on getting the ‘Down’ escalator properly functioning. Yellow caution tape is everywhere, directing traffic safely through the Hale hazard zone.

_Really they should just put a bow around every member of the family, it would be more efficient._

“Isaac,” Erica whines, “you took so long with Derek that you missed everything! You didn’t even get to play chase with me, Cora, and Boyd. It was so much fun! But then Poopy Peter,” she points an accusing finger across to where eight police officers surround the two men. The older one is already in handcuffs and the other is about to be placed in cuffs, given his growing aggression at the police for accusing him of assault and battery in the misunderstanding. “Uncle Peter was mean and he went all wolf-!”

Whatever she begins to say is interrupted by an enraged shout. “How the hell was I supposed to know that he gave his kid to the guy to hold? How do you know he’s not some sicko and he was never going to return her? Huh?” Derek’s elevated voice and quick gesture toward the captain’s face earn him a face full of pepper spray and a click of the cuffs.

Stiles doesn’t laugh; much. It’s a bit vindictive to laugh at the man’s pain, but he deserves it and much more. Stiles can be an asshole, but this man is a capital-A-asshole. Surprisingly, Derek can hear his weak chuckles. The man’s irritated red eyes stare dangerously back at Stiles like it is his fault he got the ‘mace in the face’ treatment.

It soothes Stiles’ sense of justice, rather than intimidate him. “Good old karma’s a bitch. Isn’t that right, Derek?”

He doesn’t know how the man hears his whispered words, but he does. Poopy Peter alone is the force that stops Derek from crossing the open area to rip Stiles another new one. The two men break through their cuffs during the struggle to protect/kill Stiles. The bent metal now dangles loosely from their wrists as Peter bear hugs Derek, speaking into his ear to calm him down.

Stiles’ ADHD thoughts wander from thinking how gorgeous the two of them look hugging to how government spending has really been tight, if that’s the quality of T.S.A.’s equipment. The police stand by, confounded by the men and don’t do anything to break them apart.

They continue to murmur quietly, while watching the prone flight attendant. It makes Stiles nervous. He feels like the injured prey awaiting his demise at the hands of the two predators, who simply argue about the best way to split him: head and feet or right down the middle. Coming to some nefarious agreement -if their twin smirks at Stiles are any indication- they focus back on the police and don charming masks to wile their way out of this mess. Immediate success causes loud chuckles to carry across the hall from the huddle.

Smiles across the lot of them have Stiles gulping worriedly, _What the hell?_

One of the officers splits off, carrying the screeching strawberry-blonde toddler and heads over to Stiles’ group. “Doctor Boyd and Miss Cora Hale?”

The black medic, apparently a doctor, stands quickly from Stiles’ side and answers the man, “Yes, Sir.”

“I was told to pass this to you by her father,” the overworked officer gladly begins to hand over the wailing toddler to Cora, but hesitates when he sees who she is already burdened with. “Best keep a tight hold on that one. We wouldn’t want any more trouble from the Hale party,” he warily eyes Erica for a second, and then pushes the toddler at Doctor Boyd.

“I’ll need to compile a list of his injuries for the record and I’ll need you to give a statement; you too, ma’am, statements for both incidents.”

Doctor Vernon Boyd, Stiles realizes now that he is familiar because he was one of the adults chasing the little girl in the atrium garden, gives his name and contact info and then describes the earlier incident. Erica, apparently, has been cooped up in the airport for hours due to a cancelled flight and took it upon herself to get some exercise. The doctor then went on to say they were speaking to officers at the time of this incident and followed Peter Hale over to help clear up the confusion. Apparently, Peter was the one who slipped Stiles out of Derek’s rattling hold and insisted the doctor in his party attend him. Boyd went on to list off a couple of Stiles' sore spots, but skips over Stiles’ head injury completely, and answers the rest of the questions with grunts.

“Paramedic said he looked worse off than he is, apparently. You did a fine job, Doctor.”

“The Doc has got magic healing hands,” Stiles positively remarks. The officer looks down at Stiles, scowls, and then returns to conversing with the two adults standing above him.

“And your fiancée,” the officer turns to the brunet, “Miss Hale, could I please take your statement?”

Stiles hears nothing of what Cora Hale says to the officer. His brain is stuck, _Fiancée_ : _as in not the jerk’s wife because she intends to marry the doctor. Oh my god._ He can now see the softer structure of her slim face matches the aquiline qualities of the two older men. She shares a blood relation to the Hale men.

The blonde blows another raspberry at him for staring at her aunt, but Stiles doesn’t return the gesture this time. His heart fills with hope and taps a happy dance. He feels the warmth of possibilities growing again…

“Human smells good. Want him.” The toddler, Lydia, babbles from Boyd’s arms and points at Stiles.

Stiles’ brows arch in surprise at her choice of noun. The last time he brought up the supernatural with this kid, he almost had to grovel. Stiles wisely ignores another blatant clue that she may well be in a different category of species than he. Instead he points out the obvious, “You can talk?”

She just rolls her eyes.

_A toddler just rolled her eyes at me._

“Lydia said something!” Isaac chirps happily, not at all impressed by the toddler’s remarkable comprehension of a subtle way to communicate her contempt for Stiles’ question.

The adults’ conversation about the case is silenced by Lydia’s spoken words. They try to coax more, but short of a demanding gesture for Stiles to hold her, she remains quiet. All eyes turn to the miracle worker, Stiles, and every one (except the officer) takes a sniff. They lean back with varying looks of approval. Isaac’s is more bored indifference than the excitement the rest seems to feel. Erica begins to wiggle to get out of Cora’s grasp, but she no longer has her sights set on her brother’s food. She only has manic eyes for Stiles.

_Not good._

Lydia watches the other little girl closely and clearly doesn’t like her intentions any more than Stiles. She growls, emitting a loud rumbling sound for such a small body, and screams, “MINE!”

Her yell directs the entire corridor’s attention onto them and freezes Erica on the spot. Stiles closes his eyes in pain from the loud screech ripping apart his eardrums, but also in fright. Because he can no longer ignore the way the girls’ eyes glow gold and mark it up to a trick of light. They aren’t human. His heart is pounding at the possibility that things that go bump in the night are real.

“Berry! You scared my nice smelling hu-” Erica’s scream back at the strawberry-blonde gets cut off by Cora’s hand. Too late for Stiles’ revelation, but the rest of the airport doesn’t need to know they are flying with the supernatural.

“MINE!” If possible, her second yell is louder and seems to shake the floor.

The growing crowd watches as the two reach for the other from their caretakers arms. Their appearances remain seemingly normal to the rest of the crowd. But Stiles can see through the veil and he shudders as their delicate faces morph into nightmares. Hair pulls and nails exchange, before either can be separated. It takes only a second to get control of the situation, but it is long enough for Stiles to gather he is treading a dangerous line by becoming an interest to the entire Hale family.   

With heavy sobs and tears, the children seek comfort in their caretakers’ necks. Snot and scratches mar the sweet little girls’ faces and the doctor and Cora exchange children to better calm them. The man, Vernon Boyd, has an immediate effect on the blonde girl. She goes limp in his gentle hold and nods off to sleep. Cora uses Isaac’s paper napkin to wipe away the toddler’s boogers and blood.

When the brown paper moves away from the strawberry-blonde’s cheek, Stiles is amazed to see there is no bleeding scratch. There is just a faint pink line, lightening as he watches her heal. Stiles looks over to Erica’s elbow, finding no evidence of Peter’s horrendous display of discipline, just pale unblemished skin. Rapid healing seals the deal, Stiles is certain the Hales are something else.

Cora and the doctor watch him carefully, knowing just what Stiles has seen, but neither is in a position to deal with his conclusions. 

The police officer rubs his face tiredly, oblivious to the truth unfolding before him. “Right then. Thank you for your cooperation and please try to make it out of Denver without another incident.”

His exasperated smile disappears and he turns he gives a cold look to Stiles. “Mister?”

“Stilinski,” Stiles skips over his first name.

“Please hand me your security pass. You best hope we don’t find anything on the footage to support Mr. Hale’s claim.” The officer takes his identification and calls it in over the radio.

“What the hell? I am the victim here! What about taking my statement? My rights?” Stiles yells at the officer’s retreating back. He begins to get up, but the doctor stops him.

“Easy, Mr. Stilinski; you shouldn’t be moving around in your condition.”

“Oh, my condition, that’s right. I’m sorry Doctor, but were you referring to the nonexistent condition of my head injury. Rather convenient omission by your expert diagnosis and it happens to save your buddy an elevated charge. Or would you rather I stay put, so the real ones responsible for this mess can frame me? Convenient the police never get to hear how I was on my way up to meet her father to return his kid, when that asshole took her out of my hands. How was I supposed to know he was related to her and not a kidnapper himself? He was shoving me to the ground! I was just trying to protect her and return her safely! And he sent me flying into a _fucking_ escalator!” Stiles angrily shouts at Boyd.

Magic healing angel or not, Stiles will not let this man or his own health stand in his way while this farce of an investigation sinks him. What happened to impartial police officers and investigating the truth? Powerful men with money and amazing smiles often find a way around the system and Stiles doesn’t want to be their out.

“Please do not curse in front of children, Mr. Stilinski.” Doctor Boyd reprimands Stiles.

“Whatever,” Stiles growls at the man and ignores the strawberry-blonde’s arched eyebrow. “Or is it knowledge of your family’s _condition_ that has you so concerned?”

Vernon Boyd’s hands drop from Stiles’ person faster than his buddy, Scott, fell for Stiles’ boss, Allison Argent, which was freaking instantaneous. If only she fell for him just as annoyingly fast. Stiles wouldn’t have to endure Scott’s incessant pining thirty-thousand feet above the ground every time the three all manage to share the same shift.

“Thought so,” He glares into the alert eyes surrounding him. The doctor takes a defensive step back from Stiles and Isaac scuttles behind him for protection. Cora and Lydia watch him suspiciously, but the woman backs away just as fast. Erica must have had a really long day because she remains asleep, even though the rest of her supernatural family is fraught with tension.

Maybe Stiles was a little too hasty to threaten them, given their reactions. He regrets the words right away, but can’t think of a way to settle the situation. He has a fight for his freedom to settle first. The police will get the right story, but it won’t be heard if he is lying on the floor being an invalid, so he gets up and ignores how he has probably made the situation worse. Judging by the rigid stances of the detained Hale men, glaring murder at him, he definitely made things worse.


	2. Flop the Bottle Nose Dolphin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get worse and promises are made.

Things get worse, but not in the way Stiles imagines. No, it comes in the form of an airport shuttle cart driven into him by Greenberg; a ground crewman for his airline with no talent for driving machines, despite being a mechanic. Stiles is upended by the front bumper clipping his legs out from under him and proceeds to fall forward onto the front of the cart.

“Sorry!” Greenberg calls out.

Instead of getting out and helping him off the cart, Greenberg throws the cart in reverse and the momentum causes Stiles to slip sideways off the cart and onto the hard airport floor. The bruise count is now more than Stiles cares to think. Sympathetic groans accompany the accident and he is sure that some of the witnesses are uploading his pain to their preferred hosting site and titling it ‘Part 2’ as he tries to recover his bearings. His special talent is public spectacles. And to really put the cherry on top, Greenberg has somehow managed to run over Stiles suitcase and wound his coat in the cart’s wheel.

“Hang on, man. I’ll get this out in a minute.” The tearing seams of his parka accompany Greenberg’s assurance.

“No worries, Greenberg. Take your time. I’ll just be here,” Stiles mumbles from his prone position.

_Fuck my life._

“Dude, I got the perfect shot of your face smacking into the windshield!”

But with great tragedy, brings joy or something… that resembles his best friend, Scott McCall.

“Why are you wearing a dolphin costume, Scott?”

“Oh, I forgot. It’s a promotional thing for the company. No one wants to meet pilots anymore. The kids really like the animals on the plane tail. So, they figured that pilots before check could take a more active role as greeters or that is what Jackson said…”

“Let me guess, buddy, Captain Jackass isn’t wearing the bear’s costume.”

Scott shakes his head in the negative and the dolphin’s head flops back to Scott’s shoulders to reveal a panicked human face. “Oh my god, what if Allison thought I was making a fool out of myself?”

Because Stiles is a good friend, he puts aside his tiny life crises and helps prevent Scott’s daily Allison induced meltdown. “Nah man, she probably saw how incredibly awesome you are with kids. What a dedicated person you are to your responsibilities or something. Was she smiling? Not her Disney princess one, but the real one.” He says from his sprawled out position on the floor as Scott sits comfortably in the passenger seat.

The cart gives a final jerk. The pouf of down feathers floating in the air lets him know Greenberg got the parka off the axel.

“Great,” Stiles accepts the tattered remains of his no longer brand new down jacket. “Thanks a lot, Greenberg.”

“No problem.” Greenberg is never quick enough to catch Stiles’ sarcasm, but he makes up for it in effort. He wheels Stiles’ now squeaking and bent carry-on next to his head and disappears from Stiles’ limited view of the ceiling and Scott’s nose.

Scott stops with the glassy puppy eyes, finished thinking about Stiles’ question. He gets that goofy grin that makes things suddenly alright in life and says, “She was totally into it.” And then Scott slips off to Allison Land, again.

And Stiles is left alone to focus on how to get vertical. He surprises himself when he actually does get fully upright, unassisted, and with relative ease. While a bit sore and tight in certain spots, he doesn’t feel like he was just thrown to the ground by both a Neanderthal with anger issues and a heavy piece of machinery. He stretches his back, cracks his neck, and then rolls out his shoulders. For both incidents having left their share of bruises, he feels remarkably well.

Disbelief and shock at his dexterity after two bad accidents, increases the Hales’ suspicion of him.  Cora and Boyd with the Hale kids stand in the recess of a column, a ways from the security cart, but Stiles can see them as they tilt their heads to the side and synchronize a deep inhale like they are trying to decide if Stiles is really human. He looks across the hall to the other two members of the Hale party as they share a significant look with Cora, coming to some silent agreement about Stiles.

If Stiles had the chance to walk away he’d take it, but the cops have his security pass and all the means to track him. He’s worked too hard to get where he is today and he’ll be damned if he lets the Hales take it from him, supernatural abilities or not. The pissed off flight attendant stomps around the cart to the laughing group of officers who pose for pictures with the grinning Hales as they hold the metal scraps of their demolished restraints.

He is just about to open his mouth to demand charges be brought against Derek Hale for the assault, when flippers wrap around him and hold him tight. Scott must have checked out of Allison Land a little sooner than usual. Scott hugs him in support, but it’s more like he is restraining Stiles from doing something stupid. A worried gaze searches the clear anger he finds written on Stiles face and then Scott opens his mouth. Stiles wonders sometimes how his life would have changed if his friend hadn’t, but he did, and Stiles is glad.

“Dude, I heard your I.D. check over the radio. Did you really try to abduct a kid?”

Scott eloquently reminds over a dozen police officers that they are on the job with his loud mouth and every one of them reaches to their weapons pouch and draws their firearm, eyeing Stiles and his strange company with a trigger happy itch.

“Freeze, scum bags!”

Stiles’ hands and Scott’s flippers go up in a gesture of surrender. Scott’s head whips to the side, “Oh my god, Stiles! What did you do?”

“Freeze, Tuna!”

“He’s a dolphin,” Stiles helpfully corrects the officer. Panic does things to his mouth.

It is unfortunate Scott didn’t change out of the costume, before rushing to Stiles aid because his friend’s appearance is the cherry on top of the massive sundae of Hale fabricated lies and these pigs are gobbling it up. It is just too easy for Derek and Peter to frame Stiles for all of their problems and make themselves the look like the victims. The freaky dolphin suit attracts kids like honey and is the perfect prop to cast Scott as Stiles’ criminal associate. When he is dead or in jail, he’ll blame the Hales and Jackson Whitmore for putting Scott in this position.

 “Stiles, what is going on? Did you kidnap a celebrity’s child or something!?”

“No, Scott. You know me. It’s all a misunderstanding.”

“I don’t know, Stiles, this doesn’t look like a misunderstanding.”

“Actually,” Stiles waves his raised hands around theatrically, “this looks a lot like the miscarriage of justice-” Stiles is preparing to go on about their abuse of power and corruption, but wisely stops talking when the hall echoes with the sound of every safety clicking off.

“Shut the hell up, smartass! Step apart from each other and get on your knees, hands behind your head, now! Move it, kidnappers!”

Stiles and Scott practically melt onto the floor in record time. The overly hostile police must have lost all common sense under the charming influence of the Hales. Because this death squad is excessive for an unarmed falsely accused kidnapper about to piss his pants and his clueless buddy. Props go to the capital-A-asshole and his jerk relative. Derek and Peter have somehow gotten the entire fiasco under their control, and in such a short amount of time. That takes power and balls.

_Curse Greenberg and his little transportation cart, too!_ Stiles really could have used those minutes. He would applaud their remarkable performance, but he would probably get pumped full of holes. No arrest or trial necessary in this world of Hale influence, Stiles has unwittingly become a subject.

As if hearing every panicked thought Stiles has about how powerless he is against the men, Derek Hale allows his steel blue eyes to glow red in victory. His police minions don’t notice the man’s predator gaze hungrily feasting on Stiles’ growing terror. The asshole smirks to show a sharp fang and Stiles’ eyes widen. Peter joins Derek in his gloating. Confident gold eyes watch Stiles’ nervous twitches as the younger man tries to salvage the situation.

_Shit, shit! Bad idea threatening the supernatural family. I am going to die because I found out their secret and they’ll use the police to cover everything up. That’s fucking evil._

Stiles licks his dry lips as he puzzles through his predicament. He is not as convinced as the Hales that this is over. And thankfully genius strikes and the answer comes to him. He must react too their baser instincts: dominance and sex. Luckily, Stiles has never found it difficult to be submissive. Praying his face gives nothing away, he believes he can pull this off.

He looks away from their glowing eyes to the side; tilts his head back baring his long mole dotted neck to the predators in supplication. Trying to remain calm, even as the police begin their approach and all he wants to do is to run, he continues to exude his vulnerability to the men.

He gulps, feeling his throat muscles barely unlock past the knot restricting his breath. He chokes a little and manages to say in a soft whisper, “Please…Derek, Peter.” He wasn’t exactly trying for sultry or the raspy-begging whine of a teased lover, but his nerves are all over the place.

Thought, his voice has the desired effect. When he steals a glimpse over to their heated faces and notices their barely controlled restraint not to pounce on him that very moment. The Hale men are entranced by their prey. _Good puppets._

Stiles hopes it is enough and continues, “I would never say anything. You are in no danger from me, by my word. Just don’t. Don’t do this to Scott. Please, just take me.”

His eyes are hot with angry tears and he realizes this plea is more than an act on his part. He actually believes that he could never willingly destroy this family, even if they have done nothing but humiliate and hurt him. No longer able to spare his attention on the strange feelings he holds for these strangers, he looks away from their anxious eyes and to the angry policemen that are reaching for him. Roughly, he is shoved into the floor and the police strong-arm him into restraints. Large hands pat him down for weapons and brutally press into his many bruises. One man even punches Stiles in the back, even though he has done nothing to warrant it.

_It didn’t work. I am going to jail. Oh God, please don’t let this happen!_ Tears well in his eyes and Stiles turns his cheek to the floor, glaring at his puppets in disbelief.

Peter crosses over to where the detainee is being pressed into the floor by four hundred pounds of pig. The police part, allowing him to approach their captured perp, thinking a little harassment is justified for the trials the Hales have been through this morning.

Peter’s intense desire is cloaked behind the man’s determined and cold face. He crouches next to him and his hot breath whispers into his ear, softly enough so only Stiles can hear and taunts him, “You look ravenous pinned under several men. If only it was me, you would shed tears in ecstasy, instead of fear. You’d like that wouldn’t you, Stiles?” He collects a hot tear from Stiles’ cheek and brings to his mouth to taste.

“Enough!” Derek roars and throws the mangled scraps of the cuffs, he was holding as a gimmick for pictures, into the wall. His rage at Peter’s words makes him slip easily out of the non-violent character; Peter worked so hard to sell to the police. Luckily, Peter is there to pull the wool back over their eyes now that he has Stiles’ truth felt statement and had his extra fun.

Then, he winks at Stiles.

And that’s when Stiles realizes he’s been played; he was their puppet all along. Fury overwhelms his senses and he sees white. He bucks in his human cage, but can’t move an inch to claw at Peter’s smirking face. The men holding him laugh at Stiles, thinking Peter’s cruel words got to him. They burn, but not the way the police think.

_Fuck Peter Hale, this is all foreplay to him._

“Your promise to- I believe your words were ‘just take me’- is still on the table, right?” Peter soft words ghost against the shell of Stiles’ ear.

Stiles hisses angrily, wishing he never made such a promise and remains stubbornly quiet.

Ignoring Derek’s audible growls and Stiles’ attitude, Peter continues calmly, “This is all a misunderstanding, isn’t it Stiles?”

Stiles knows he is damning himself, but he still needs Peter and Derek’s help to get out this. So he mouths out, “Yes, you low down dirty bastards,” with a barely perceptible breath, knowing Peter and Derek can hear.

“Good boy.” Manic glee sizzles in Peter’s light blue eyes.

_Oh gods, what have I done._

Peter drags his tongue behind Stiles’ ear, nipping him for his sass. Leaving a cooling trail of saliva to a hot painful indentation that has Stiles jerking against the police hold, and earning a second punch to the back. He groans in pain and misery, cocking an eyebrow at Peter to get on with it. The older Hale smirks evilly and stands up to begin the next act.

“Please, gentlemen and ladies. I cannot bear to see any more violence today. Like I was telling you earlier about Derek,” Peter nods over to Derek, who has recovered from his slip, but still looks like he is ready to gut Peter and the entire room. Derek manages to give the men an attractive smile and Peter continues, “This has all been a terrible misunderstanding.”

The police ease off the pressure, drawn to Peter like moths to a candle. Scott groans off to his side. But Stiles must be a moth too, because he can’t seem to tear his gaze away from the man he just sold his freedom to.

“This man is no kidnapper; he is merely a kind person, who helped my dear family when we were in need. I apologize that he feels he has been wronged. Just as I thank D.I.A. and all of you for being so understanding to my family. It was simply misfortune that I couldn’t intercept Derek and this flight attendant’s confusing meeting. It would have saved us all the hassle these two men -who only had the protection of my adorable daughter in mind-, have caused today. She is precious to us, which as you all can obviously see around you, adds up.” Peter pulls out the finely tailored pocket linings of his five hundred dollar jeans and sighs.

And Stiles can’t believe he actually desires this man. There is no accounting for taste.

A loud uncomfortable chuckle rises from the many service employees on scene picking up after Stiles and the Hales. Humor doesn’t fix Plexiglas, rewire broken escalators, or replant the entire atrium garden. They’ll be mending the damage done to the concourse long after the Hales and Stiles fly away. The police though have a good laugh, damn the damage because they’ll have the story of the year to tell their buddies and Peter’s wallet does tell good jokes.

Cheer and forgiveness abound, the police remove the cuffs from Stiles’ wrists and drop all charges against the Hales and Stiles; thanks to Peter’s generous donation/reparation/bribery, not his moving speech.

No public execution today, the crowd wanders away in awe of the events that have occurred in airport this morning.

“Stilinski, we have not been properly introduced.” Peter’s voice rolls through his Polish name with vigor any native speaker would be proud of. Placing his grip around Stiles’ unbruised forearm to pull him up to his feet, Stiles squawks when Peter doesn’t stop pulling and he is dragged into the man’s chest. Peter takes further liberties, when he rests his chin on Stiles’ shoulder, breathes deeply, and sighs happily.

“I don’t think proper introductions involve your hand on my ass, Mr. Hale.” Stiles growls and steps away from Peter’s overly familiar ‘hand shake.’

“The best introductions always do, Stiles.” Peter winks at him and motions for a murderous looking Derek to join them.

Not wanting to get involved in what’s looking to be a sexual harassment case in the making, the remainder of the Private Hale Firing Squad (also known as airport security and Denver Police) find something to do quickly. They clear away from the elder Hale’s idea of “greeting” someone, lest they be next.

A blur of grey and blue wobbles in a dazed circle as Scott recovers his bearings. His buddy scrambles up from the floor to hug Stiles. The costume is in tatters. The punched dolphin nose makes it look like a blue pug and one of the fins have been torn off at the shoulder. “Stiles!”

“What smells like bad tuna?” Peter growls at the interruption.

“Holy shit, Stiles! I almost got arrested for your kidnapping.”

Bless Scott, fine pilot, but a little slow out of the cockpit. “Scottie, weren’t you listening, it was a MISUNDERSTANDING, no stealing of kids involved! Besides that is what best friends are for: they get arrested for each other.” Stiles feels the need to clarify Scott’s relation to his life to protect him. Both Peter and, surprisingly, Derek glare at him for holding Stiles so tightly.

“Friends get arrested for stupid shit like bar fights; not kidnapping!.”

“That hurts, buddy. I’d be your crony any day. Stealing a car, smuggling you and Allison to Canada to elope, killing your first officer, Jackson, hiding his body; whatever you need, man.” Stiles is trying to keep things light because the glowing glares over Scott’s tasseled hair are encroaching on territory issues Stiles refuses to have in the middle of the airport no matter what promises he has made.

Scott ignores Stiles and turns to Peter, and snarls, “You couldn’t have pointed that out earlier. Those guys almost broke my arm and I’m supposed to fly a plane in the next,” Scott looks down to his finely crafted Swiss watch, “Crap! Allison is going to kill us.”

Stiles grabs Scott’s arm and twists to see the piece, earning a groan from his injured friend. “Argent is going to suspend my pay, if we don’t make it to the gate for the meeting in nine minutes! We’ve already missed check in.”

“So what?! She’ll deny me sex, if I mess up her perfect performance record before her promotion review next week. Believe me, you’d rather be fired. GREENBERG!” Scott screams at the man waiting in the cart.

The yellow flashing lights flip on and the cart gives a lurching start. A crunching sound pronounces another victim to Greenberg’s driving and Stiles is dismayed to see Greenberg rustle his luggage out from under the cart. That’s the second time today. If his iPad is actually in one piece, he’ll think the world is ending. Nothing has gone right today, why should it start now?

“How come your sex life is more important to you than my job? Besides Allison is a friend; well she’s a work friend that happens to be in a relationship with my BFF, she wouldn’t fire me.”

Scott is shaking his arms about frantically to get Greenberg to hurry. “Because _SEX_ , Stiles. Besides, you are in a heap already. All the time you had to take off to help your dad with your mom, and then your dad…” Scott grimaces realizing too late he has mentioned Stiles’ recently deceased father, and mother - _God, Scott’s on a roll_ \- but plows on with the rest of the bad news. “… It hasn’t helped your situation. When Allison heard security confirm your I.D., she sent Greenberg to get your replacement. I begged her to wait and let me come find out what was wrong, but dude, you may already be out of a job today; if not permanently.”

“What?! No, I need this job.” Stiles heart races, this can’t happen. Selling the mortgaged house brought in nothing and his father’s government employee life insurance check has dried up. He owes six months to the insurance company for his deceased mother’s medical debt. The financial stress sent his father to an early grave. Had the Sheriff been in the right mindset he would have never misjudged Daehler like he did. His father murdered, Stiles is alone with a flight attendant associate degree and mountains of inherited debt.

“Today is the worst day for this to happen, too. I gifted tickets to her parents to fly to New York with us for the weekend. Allison is flipping about the surprise and going crazy to make things perfect for her parents. We’ll make the briefing late and that will delay the departure. She’ll blame you, but her parents will blame me because you’re my friend!”

“Dude, they hate you! Why do you care?”

“Victoria and Chris will make wonderful in-laws; things just need to warm up a little.”

“She is a class-A bitch and your mom hates her, Scott. I am starting to hate you for subjecting me to your stupid surprise.”

“Surprise! Stiles, what the hell just happened here!? That was no picnic!”

“And catering to the Argents is?”

“Leave it, Stiles! You owe me perfect service for the crap, I just went through. Don’t disappoint me or Allison, assuming you even still have the job.” Scott grumbles, turning from Stiles and calls to Greenberg stuck maneuvering the cart in the slow airport crowd. “Hurry the fuck up, Greenberg! Just hit them; we don’t have time!”  

The crowd of people frown in indignation at the pilot for his callous comment, but the usually peace loving Scott is too lost in the threat of his girlfriend cock blocking him to care. “This was supposed my weekend to dazzle them, but you are ruining my chance, Stiles.”

“Your chance with her parents or Allison? Cause if you’re planning on marrying her parents, then you’re welcome.” Stiles snaps at his friend. “God, Scott! Do you even realize how crappy my day has been? No you don’t.”

Scott glares at Stiles and Stiles stands there glaring right back. The pilot diverts his eyes from Stiles’, dismissing him like all things not-Allison and goes back to impatiently waiting for Greenberg to complete his ten point turn to back out from his stuck position between a bench and a planter.

“How did the idiot even get in there?”

Stiles sighs ignoring Scott’s question. Running his hands through his hair in disappointment, his aggravation for his best friend’s attitude grows sullen. Stiles watches his friend from the corner of his eyes, _So much for BFFs always being there for each other._

“I thought I smelled bad tuna.” Peter comments to Derek and something dark passes across their faces. Stiles just assumes they’re talking about Scott’s attitude. He couldn’t agree more.

Greenberg careens the cart over to Scott and the captain launches himself into the front seat. Stiles is hopping onto the rear facing seat, when he is pulled backwards and into the arms of Derek Hale. Derek wrangles his prey into a private employee entrance and Peter joins them.

“What the hell? Let me go-!” Derek ignores Stiles’ struggling. He tucks his nose into Stiles’ hair, scenting him with hot pants of air and covers the younger man’s mouth with his palm to quiet his protests.

Stiles tries to push Derek’s hand off, but Peter grabs both his wrists and starts decorating the irritated skin with fluttering kisses. Adding lip shape bruises to the dark marks the handcuffs left behind. Stiles’ nerves alight with pleasure, against his will, as the younger Hale licks the column of his spine, down to just below the collar of his work shirt. Contact with Derek and Peter opens a gate in his body and soul, despite the furious protests in his mind. His hyperactive energy feels settled, malleable, and in control for the first time in his life.

He lets go and arches back into Derek, lost to the men’s touches. Invitation sent, Derek presses his taut body flush against Stiles’ back rubbing his free hand up and down Stiles’ side and down to his hip; kneading away Stiles’ concern for anything, save the company of the Hale men.

Stiles gasps from the way Derek’s body perfectly curls around his. It is as comforting as it is erotic. Unconsciously Stiles licks for his lips, but instead, his tongue caresses the skin of Derek’s palm. The man rocks into him from the unexpected touch. Scenting the lust that is permeating Stiles’ skin, the younger Hale grunts as Stiles deliciously rubs back against the filling cock.

The small detail of Derek’s not-small semi bumping into his inner thigh is enough to shock Stiles to his senses. His mind finally prevails over his body and soul, smacking him with the warning to get to work and stop fondling strangers he hates, in public.

His frightening realization of how out of control things are renews the struggles to get free and he bites Derek’s hand. The pain that should have Derek screaming, actually just excites the man more given the twitching member now grinding into him. Whimpering in angry frustration of his denied freedom, Stiles freezes. His stiff reluctance to allow things to go any further awakens Derek from his movements, and he too stills. Derek’s nose scents Stiles’ panic combating with arousal, which lace together to make the off-putting scent of anxiety.

“Stiles?” Derek murmurs into the younger man’s hair. The salty scent of tears is his answer, without even having to look at Stiles’ face.

Stiles feels the warmth of Derek’s body pull away. He wrenches himself free, but Peter’s hand grasps his right hip and Derek’s grips the other side. Together they stop his movement to flee the men. Derek growls at the mirrored action, suddenly remembering Peter, and forgetting Stiles’ discontent. Derek lifts his perfectly healed hand from Stiles mouth and uses it to pull Stiles’ chin to the side in a cruel grip. Stiles senses the tense shift of Derek’s mood and his scent of fear wafts through the private space.

Aching from the position Derek forces him into, Stiles murmurs through his shut jaw, “Ow, ge’ off!”

Derek again ignores Stiles’ protest, and maneuvers his stubble lined face to the side where Peter’s whispered taunts forced his promise. Stiles is certain now. He doesn’t want to keep the deal sealed in saliva and teeth, but it matters not to Peter or Derek what he wishes. The younger Hale studies the spot with a scowl, growling over his shoulder at Peter. Stiles quickly closes his eyes in fright from the sight of Derek’s eyes glowing red.

Peter has stopped his attention to Stiles’ wrists and fingers and watches Derek with a gloating smirk. When Derek’s hot tongue traces over Peter’s mark and adds his own bruising nip, Peter’s eyes flash gold and he growls back at Derek, “Don’t be spiteful, Derek, I claimed him first. You’re lucky I agreed to share.”

Derek’s answer is to gnaw with his blunt teeth over the bruise and run his tongue over the spot again. His husky voice taunts Peter, “And now he is mine, your claim of intention is broken.”

Peter snarls and lunges at Derek with claws.

‘Holy shit!’ Stiles thinks and flinches away from the two fighting over their territory, him. He realizes he’s just a hunk of meat between the two predators and he refuses to be dinner. 

Peter wrenches Derek’s head away from the spot with a bone cracking hit. Intent on tattooing Stiles’ smooth skin with bruises reading P.H. to reclaim Stiles, a clawed hand interrupts Peter’s mouth. Lifting by his throat, Derek tosses his relation into the service door. Shaking off the hit that left a body sized crease in the door, Peter’s fangs pop out and the monster are at it again. Stiles is so out of the there.

A worried call from Scott echoes in their private space, “Are you alright, Stiles?”

He manages to twist out of Derek’s distracted hold, scrambling around the corner, and jumps wildly at the cart’s rear facing seat. Only to be hauled back out by Peter this time.

“Stiles, I swear to god, if you make me late for whatever kinky shit is going on with you and your sugar daddies, I will make you pay!” Scott screams at him.

Derek roars at Scott. He and Greenberg turn around and face forward so fast, Stiles almost laughs. Instead he rams his foot down on Peter’s insole, trying to force the man to let him go. It does nothing, but scuffs the boot that is probably worth more than Stiles’ quarterly wages.

“You’ll pay for that, boy.” Peter bites his ear breaking the surface skin and laps his tongue over the wound.

Stiles pushes the man’s smooth chin off and holds his throbbing lobe; drops of blood come away on his fingers. Stiles hisses at Peter, “Bastard!”

“Don’t mark what’s mine, Peter!” Derek grabs for a bloody finger and sucks the red away.

Not to be out done, Peter swoops in on his thumb pad and sucks indecently over the crimson wet skin, back and forth, with flicks from his tongue across the pad, until the remaining blood disappears.

“I’m not a bloody steak!” Stiles tries to pull his hand away from the two men’s mouth, but fails.

They hardly pay attention to him, focusing only on his saliva covered hand. They are both busy demonstrating their repertoire of sexual skills on his hand for their rival, not Stiles. Showing up the other as their movements get more and more obscene and it is unraveling him. The sensation of their tight lips, stroking back and forth around his fingers, has Stiles’ dick twitching with need. “More,” Stiles huskily pants.

“STILES! Two minutes!” Scott yells, running around to the driver’s side and shoving the accident prone Greenberg into the passenger’s seat.

“Derek, I have to pee!” Cries Isaac.

All three men untangle, caught red handed in the moment, and spin their attention to the separate calls. Movement catches Stiles eyes and he flings himself onto the cart that is starting for their plane’s gate, with or without him. Stiles’ energy bucks wildly from the quick separation, then lulls to a dull state; lacking the sharp edge, he has found only the Hale men can inspire.

The cart races off, leaving behind the two bewildered men. Stiles has to lock his arms around the front seats to stay in- but also to keep himself from jumping out.

Quicker to recover, Peter sends him a cheerful wave, and then turns to the younger Hale and declares, “Mine now, Derek.”

The Hales disappear from his view, but Derek’s angry roar is still echoing around the terminal. Stiles sighs in relief and fear. For all the shit and pain he has had the misfortune to experience today, he’ll never forget the promise these strangers might have brought to his life. Unwilling haggled from his desperation, but something in him is alright with that, since nothing will come of his words. After all, it was just a chance meeting in an airport and nothing more.

And all his souvenirs for the hellish tryst are a bleeding ear and a bundle of bruises.

_Fuck his life._


	3. The taint of rose glass

“Are you sure you should be in here?” Stiles glares into the small mirror noticing the intruder just closing the door behind him to the employee only break/changing room.

“Allison gave me permission to use the restroom in here. It’s more convenient than the public ones across the terminal.”

Stiles shares a mutual scowl with the man and goes back to his task of applying the burning disinfectant to his cuts and punctures; wincing when his effort turns to the worst of the collective injuries- Peter’s revenge bite for his boot. His ear is pulsing angry red and raw, just short of needing stitches.

“Those are quite the marks, son.”

Stiles ignores the man, who has made no move to use the facilities, and splashes cold water over his hot face. He looks back into the mirror and studies the red flush marring his face. His humiliation burns worse than Peter’s bite.  

“Looks like you’ve been attacked by wild animals, especially your neck and ear. Your shredded cuffs and puncture wounds on your wrists, suggest tiny claws.”

“The cat got a bit frisky, before I left.”

“The cat gave you those hickeys, too?”

His towel goes flying into the locker accentuating his rage for having a man he detests- simply for his familial relations to harpies i.e. the Argent women, witness his unraveled state. He focuses on the man that sired the bitch responsible for his emotional state, and growls, “Mr. Argent, if you need help identifying the universal symbol for the men’s bathroom, may I direct your attention to the door on your right and kindly leave me the fuck alone?!”

“Now, now, Mr. Stilinski; there is no need be so testy. After all, it’s your job to provide customers with exemplary manners and patience… A job, my daughter graciously allows you to possess, in light of the more unfavorable events that made you late and speak poorly of your character.”

Chris steps away from the door and into the florescent light of the sink vanity, standing unnervingly close to Stiles and studies his naked skin. “Speaking of, could you perhaps enlighten me as to which of the Hale men bit you here?”

Stiles freezes as the man points to his wounded ear, “ _Excuse me?_ You know this because?”

“Your friend, McCall, was very forth coming about your… _misunderstanding_ with the Hales. Classic romance dribble of conflict and resolution- or something, Scott was babbling about love. He is the type of fool that would claim love-at-first-sight given his infatuation with my daughter. But more importantly, your tête-à-tête led to the numerous ‘love’ bites adorning your neck.”

“Scotty, made a mistake.” He points to his wounds and bruises. “This is not love. Sometimes, when Scott gets nervous like… _I don’t know_ … let’s say -when he’s being interrogated by his girlfriend’s creepy father- his stories get a bit embellished; great story, just not quite right with the facts.” Stiles shrugs, dismissing Scott’s observations as just that: a good story. The idea of love and Hales is ridiculous.  

“But Mr. Argent, you can be certain that his love for Allison is true, no embellishment is necessary.” Stiles’ hates defending his best friend, after Scott’s traitorous attitude in blaming him for Allison’s mood. But he has always been the better friend and knows when it counts.

The younger man hardens his face in challenge to the DILF (if he wasn’t so creepy or married) invading his space, “Besides, my life is none of your business!”

“On the contrary, Stiles, it is my business. My family makes this kind of case our business and depending on which animal gave you that mauling, you may need shots.”

“ _Shots?_ What are you besides an arms dealer, some kind of personal injury lawyer or private contractor for the CDC? Get your petri dish from someone else. Take your piss and get out!”

“You are a funny guy, Stiles. Let’s go with the disease control one,” Chris Argent cocks his signature smirk and his eyes turn to ice, chilling Stiles to the core.

The next thing Stiles sees in the locker grate, before his face is being smashed like a waffle into the metal weave. His right arm is bent behind his back, immobilizing him. Argent gives him a second face crushing shove for good measure, and says, “His name, Stiles.”

“What is wrong with you? Stiles plus pain is not okay. I get really cranky. I declare Hurt Stiles Day over! First the Hales hurt me, then Allison and Scott hurt me, and even Greenberg got a little hit in. You’re just another in a long line, you sick bast-” Instead of listening to Stiles babble on, Argent twists his already injured ear until Stiles manages to form the syllables for Peter’s name from his silent scream.

“Lucky for you, those shots will not be necessary- at least, not yet…”

Argent releases the tortured flesh and flicks Stiles’ blood from his hand to the tile. Stiles coughs roughly, choking on his snot and tears. A broken sob keens in the empty room as Stiles feels the older man’s warm tacky fingers press to his hip, tracing briefly down the ridge of his groin and stopping just before his belt buckle. The digits then follow the hilly path across his lean abdomen to his flank, taping each rib as Stiles’ panting knocks the man’s hand up his torso to cup his pectoral and stops to circle a peaking nipple. “Very nice, Stiles. Perhaps you need a different kind shot; one with a _needle_ instead?”

Stiles pulls at the man’s wrist to try to remove the offending digits, but gets trapped by the deft hand when it closes over his. The older man pins his left wrist to his chest, using the locker to reinforce the hold.

Chris Argent leans into his ear and whispers, “Behave or there will be consequences.”

 _Oh God, please not another sadist._ Stiles shudders, feeling Argent’s unwelcome hot breath against his neck. The hard bulge at his back is definitely too warm to be the cold metal of a concealed weapon, the man constantly keeps in his possession. “A needle is a good description for your tiny dick, you bastard.”

Argent grips the younger man’s arm, still locked behind his back, and twists, manhandling Stiles’ right hand to his groin, and presses flush onto Stiles back. The hard bulge pulses from the contact and Stiles feels Argent’s girth increasing as the man ruts into his open palm. “Not so tiny, is it boy?”

Stiles tries to pull away, but Argent’s bruising hold tightens down on his wrist bones, forcing Stiles to remain still.

“Let go, you fucker!”

He hisses his rage at the man through his clenched teeth and bucks backwards suddenly, managing to free his left hand from Argent’s pin against the locker. He reaches behind him to claw at any flesh he can around Argent’s tented pants. Argent growls in pain, but counters quickly by checking Stiles roughly into the locker.

Dazed, Stiles is not prepared for the painful kick that pushes his legs apart. Argent wedges himself into the space and Stiles hands are promptly pinned to his sides by Argent’s. Both men pant from the exertion, sweat pooling over their skin. Argent’s throbbing cock remains waiting pressed snuggly into the clothed crack of Stiles’ parted globes.

Stiles has had enough of the rough treatment; he is no masochist. This is heading toward rape, not foreplay. A trembling whimper escapes his control and he pleads, “Stop. Stop. I don’t want this.”

“I thought… Scott said you liked the way the Hales handled you. And the looks,” Chris removes his hands from Stiles bruised wrists and takes a step back, panting in confusion.

“Are just looks! Fuck Chris, you are married and creepy- but hot. They were looks, not invitations.”

A strained muscle twinges in his leg, protesting. Stiles clenches down on a whine as he slowly pulls his spread legs together. He takes a moment to stop trembling, blinking the sweat out of his eyes, before snarling at Argent, “EMBELISHMENT, Argent. Scott doesn’t know what the hell he saw! His head is stuck so far up Allison’s ass; he only sees the world through heart-shaped glasses. Batman is fucking in love with Joker in Scott’s opinion, so I wouldn’t take anything the dope has says seriously. And I certainly wouldn’t trust his version of the _assault_ by the Hales. Then use it to my plan to seduce Stiles with violent play! And in case you haven’t got the fucking clue yet- I wasn’t playing at a masochistic submissive. I was trying to fight off a rapist!”

“Yeah that’s right, no ultraviolent-hard-on here!” Stiles growls, when Argent’s eyes flicker down to check.

Whatever arousal the man felt bringing Stiles pain is quickly shoved under the tight control Stiles has always known of Allison’s father. A cold tone replaces his once husky whispers, “Fine, my mistake.”

Stiles thinks it’s over, but is alarmed when the man spins him and shoves his by his neck back into the locker and faces him with a stern glare. “Then, I can get on with the purpose of this errand and advice you not to involve yourself with the Hales. Be the clever young man, I know you to be, and remain Scott’s smartass best friend…” Stiles shivers when the man’s succinct tone warms slightly commenting on him, but freezes as he continues with the rest of his warning, “…and not some diseased animal’s favorite toy or else. I don’t need to remind you that if your mouth flaps about this little visit to anyone, your job will become nonexistent and Scott’s life will be…” He pauses for effect, ominous end to best friend clear. His clear blue eyes sparkle with a deadly twinkle and he finishes, “Two birds with one stone, as they say.”

“Understood, _Sir_.”

The weight on his throat withdraws and the man exits the break room, without looking back. Leaving Stiles huddled against the locker room shaking in pain, blood running down his bruised neck with his salty tears, and deeply confused by Argent’s message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one, but I love Chris Argent/Stiles pairing stories. Poor Stiles.


	4. Roasted Nuts

The spasm in his cheek muscles barely holds his fake smile. He looks more deranged than happy; especially since the bruises and gash make him look less inviting to passengers as they board the plane from the jet-bridge. Grumpy faces meet Stiles’ strained one and he helps them make the slow journey to their seats and stores their carry-ons. After a significant time delay, due to a last minute passenger shuffle from an earlier cancelled flight, the plane is finally filling up with people just as tired and hassled as he.

Annoying to deal with, but Stiles accounts his continued employment to this late reorganization; that and the bitter taste of complying with Argent’s blackmail.

Earlier, his desperate pleading and a new extended amount of time allotted enough good fortune that Chief Pursuer Allison Argent reluctantly allowed him another chance -not that she didn’t make him pay for it.

In front of the entire crew, Allison ripped him apart in her tirade about his work ethic. Armed with unnecessarily personal digs (she could have only heard from Scott), the heartless woman almost had him in tears and sent him to the employee break room to clean up for his shift. On top of his already Hale frazzled psyche and suffering from Allison’s emasculation, Chris Argent then continued the day’s torture with an assault, both physical and sexual in nature.

That was less than a half-hour ago, now Stiles is living on a thin edge and facing a two thousand mile direct flight with the man, his bitch of a daughter, a.k.a. his boss, and his lying traitor of a best friend. Plus Jackass Whitmore, his hated enemy who happens to be co-piloting this tin can, in what is going down as the second worst day in his life. Confused, exhausted, and furious with sexual harassment, he carefully tries to perform his job with the minimal amount of stress.

Unfortunately for Stiles, he is a flight attendant and it comes with the job in heaping piles. Like the fact he has to placidly face his abuser and his wife as they board the plane and escort them to their first class seats.

Taking the hard rolling case Victoria passes him, he heaves the luggage part way to the overhead, but strains under the weight. Chris Argent, is there sliding along his back to help muscle the load until it’s safely stored. Slamming down the storage cover, Stiles quickly backs away from their contact. He unconsciously reaches for his Steri-strip patched ear and looks at the lit floor trying to regain his composure in the face of this man.

“What do you have in there, guns?” Stiles nervously chuckles, fear pitching his gruff exhales.

“Yes,” Chris Argent replies.

“You brought your hunting stuff for a weekend in New York City… as a carry-on! You can’t just bring firearms on a plane.”

“Licensed, certified and approved for cabin storage.” Victoria Argent stiffly interrupts Chris and Stiles’ exchange, before Stiles and the other listening passengers can go into hysterics. She pulls the appropriate papers from her purse and taps her foot impatiently as Stiles gives them the once over.

“But not for cabin use; only government agents have that kind of clearance. Do not open this case on board the plane and we won’t have a problem.” Stiles murmurs with a nervous edge. He doesn’t need any more confrontation with the frightening couple.

“I’m sure there will be no need.” Victoria Argent adds blithely. Both Argents flash stunningly white, perfect smiles and Stiles thinks their compliance is as veiled as their supposedly harmless appearance.

Thankfully Allison sees Stiles’ panicked tension regarding her parents’ form of entertainment (torturing Stiles and guns). She quickly directs him to help a heavily pregnant woman, who is trying to reach her stored purse.

Stiles thanks his boss stiffly under his breath for the excuse; no longer as angry with her as he is with her father. She’s the lesser of two evils, but it gets Stiles far away in the next aisle and he is thankful for the space. When he looks back all three Argents are watching him cautiously. Stiles stands up, the overhead storage cuts his view from their seats, but he still feels their eyes crawling over his skin.

_You can do this, Stiles._

He repeats this mantra for the next few minutes, until all the passengers- save a late party of seven- have boarded. Final calls go out to the missing travelers and things are looking fairly settled, until the overhead light above the Argents dings. Stiles ignores the flight attendant request signal. It happens again.

And again; and Stiles, for his own good, can’t ignore the call the third time. He passes through the galley to their side of the plane, spotting Allison toward the rear of the plane assisting an economy passenger with a bag that has exploded all their personal belonging over three rows from trying to store the overstuffed luggage in the smaller overhead.

“Mister and Missus Argent, how may I assist you?” Stiles swallows his distaste for these people; he wants to continue his employment after all and clicks off the call light.

“The headphone jack is broken.” Mr. Argent announces loudly and points to his window seat electronic located in the center of their arm rests.

“Excuse me.” Stiles cautiously leans forward over the woman to observe the broken console, but he finds himself caught midway by a bracing grip around his man bits. He tries to scramble back, but receives a punishing tug.

“Quiet, Mister Stilinski.” Mrs. Argent warns.

Stiles’ wide eye look falls to the woman’s crimson red nail polish clamping painfully on his junk through his dress pants. He follows her arm up to her face and shudders. If he was afraid of Mr. Argent, he is terrified by the calculating frigidness of this woman’s powerful glare. He glances nervously at Chris, but the man simply keeps his eyes on the window, observing bustle of the tarmac outside. Clearly he is indifferent to Stiles’ plight at the hands of his molesting wife.

Sweat is beading at his brow and he begins to pant in pain. His grip tightens on the seat rest, as his body instinctively curls and he squeaks, “Let go!” between his suffering gasps.

“When my husband warned you earlier- yes, I know about that. I told him to be thorough and see he has.” Mrs. Argent softly speaks into his cringing face, glancing up to his damaged ear and finger shape bruises on his neck approvingly. She probably wouldn’t approve of her husband’s other methods. His eyes flick to the man, but all the reaction his wife’s words provoke is an extra grit of teeth. No concern Stiles will spill the beans. And the man is right, there is no way Stiles would mention Argent’s indiscretion while his wife has a hold of his balls.

“Focus, Stilinski.” She growls quietly, capturing his attention from study Chris with a twitch of a finger, but then eases off the pressure some because Stiles looks like he may start screaming. “Would you care tell me why you failed to disclose the fact to my husband that your seemingly incidental mauling is in fact an infatuation for the Hales; enough so, it warrants their presence on this flight to protect a future mate from hunters?”

“What?” Stiles blinks in confusion, not understanding any of her words.

“You brought a pack of werewolves on my flight, you hussy!” She sneers into his face with as much fury as a whisper can hold.

“ _Werewolves_?!… I don’t… care if there… are vampires… flying… today; Jesus… please, just… let go.” Stiles tears are tracking over his face.

Chris finally looks over with a slight hint of empathy as a fellow man. His brutal wife has rendered Stiles practically into a little girl, curling in her lap to try and ease her pressure.

“Victoria, we didn’t get species specific. I only mentioned they were diseased animals and nothing was said about us being supernatural hunters. Just idle threats of a vague nature, I’m not sure he knew about werewolves.”

“Christopher,” Mrs. Argent swings her furious attention to her husband and mercifully releases Stiles.

A row is about to begin between two vigilantes, who think it’s alright to threaten and torture people. Thankfully the plane is still grounded and Stiles can have them easily booted for this assault. He just needs to shuffle painfully to the inflight phone to call for help. He’ll give Scott his first born -if he is still capable of fathering children- as an apology for destroying his future chance with Allison’s parents, but this is for the safety of all on board.

He gathers his metal facilities to ignore his wailing boys and tries not pass out as he stands. Halting his effort when both Argents heads suddenly turn to where familiar rumbling growls carry down the jet-bridge.  

Through pain laced tears, Stiles pushes his weight off the arm rest and dizzily turns around. Fighting the urge to puke, he faces the red rimmed eyes of a pissed off Derek Hale, marching with purpose onto his plane. Tracking with his nose to Stiles’ position, Derek’s beacon eyes home onto the pain wrecked face of his target inches from the capable hunting family.

“Wha- somebody just shoot me.” Stiles mumbles out loud at the sight of the man and what appears to be the entire Hale family; w _erewolf pack_ , Stiles realizes.

The final boarding call for the missing ‘Hale party of seven,’ makes complete sense to him now. Stiles vows to never tune out the ground crews announcement ever again.

“It’s being arranged.” Victoria threateningly whispers to him. The red twinkle in Derek’s eyes ignites into radioactive laser vision from her menacing words.

The moment stretches on between the Hales and the Argents, enough so that the oblivious people in the front of the plane begin to stare at the immobile late comers. Stiles senses the curtain shift separating the sections and someone comes to stand behind his back. After years of working with the woman, he knows it to be Allison.

She places a hand to the small of his back in concern, mistaking his unraveled state as shock and fear seeing the Hales again, rather than the trauma inflicted by Victoria’s vicious hostage of his clackers. It’s not exactly one or the other for Stiles because he is equally dumbfounded that these men have chased him here as he is crippled by his swollen gonads. 

“Mine!” Surprisingly, the gruff declaration is not sprouted from Peter or Derek, but by little Lydia pointing right at the flight attendant.

“That’s right, Berry. He is ours. My bite, my bitch, and your new mommy. Too bad for your Uncle Derek, we won’t be sharing.” Peter sweetly chirps to his daughter, not at all bothered by the younger Hale turning his death glare from the Argents onto him. Isaac and Boyd both run interference to keep Derek and Peter separated -preventing another Hale incident before they have a chance to leave Denver.

Meanwhile, the passengers have turned to look at the flight attendant. He flushes iridescent red, begging the floor to swallow him up. ‘ _Mommy_?’ He feels a spark in him flaring at the thought of a new family. His elation floods his body and he reaches up to touch Peter’s claim forgetting his aching nuts for a moment. The reawakened pain from contact with his injured ear jogs his memory- _The jerk bit me! And has the gall to tell a child that I’m his bitch!_

His resolve from earlier, as the two werewolves drooled over their chew toy, and painful events since have cooled his desire to be anything to the Hales. Peter’s demeaning words just reinforces his reluctance. As much as Stiles hates the Argents, there is some truth to their warning; he has no idea what he is walking into by affiliating with the Hales. Werewolves are a lot to digest, but hunters in addition, are a whole new level. Besides, who makes that kind of promise to a kid about a stranger? Stiles is really unprepared for that kind of commitment.

“Not going to happen, Peter.” Stiles pitched whisper tries to express his conviction to end things, but there is a lingering doubt in Stiles’ soul.

He knows it will take more than this to convince the man, but maybe it’s enough to get them to leave the plane and save the Hales from the trigger itching Argents.

Peter’s cooing cheer dissolves into stunned hurt. But the savvy man’s stubborn nature pushes through his second of heartache and challenges Stiles’ with his unwavering belief that he will have his way with Stiles.

Erica, who is gnawing on the soft fur of a stuffed buffalo and looking too much the part of a _werewolf_ , looks up to Boyd in question. “What’s a bitch? Can I have one? I want a mommy again, too.”

Boyd struggles to answer the little girl as every pair of eyes in the business/first class looks over to him with various states of sympathy or amusement at the girl’s loud question. _Ladies and Gentleman your entertainment this flight_ … more and more cellphones and magazines are forgotten as the other travelers watch the strange family interact.

“You; they’re here for you. It’s not a coincidence! Stiles do you realize what you’ve done?” Allison growls in his ear. The bitch is back and clearly agrees with her mother, given the punishing hold on his shoulder about this unexpected turn.

A squirming Boyd is saved from having to answer the delicate question, as the cockpit door swings back with such force it bumps the person stepping through and causes him to stumble into Cora Hale.

“Sorry, Ma’am,” The flight engineer, Bobby Finstock, manhandles his way to standing using Cora’s thin frame. He has the wherewithal to grope her ‘accidentally’ and she shoves him back into the door, making him fall into the cockpit, gaining both the pilots’ attention for the disturbance.

“Coach! You alright?” McCall says stepping out his pilot seat and helps the man up. Jackson has his hand part way to reaching the emergency distress phone to call in security.

‘Coach’ is actually a nickname that he insists everyone call him. For a Christmas joke gift two years ago, Stiles bought him a whistle to go with the guy’s wonky drill sergeant persona. The man actually had tears in his eyes opening the cheap gag gift. The next shift Stiles shared with him, he was wearing it to work and emphasizing his commands with loud toots. Let’s just say, Stiles has been the hated source behind the man’s antics since. Thankfully, Scott intercepted Stiles’ next joke present, before Captain Whitmore and his narcissistic tendencies could actually crash a plane. The distraction of a mountable dashboard mirror would endanger so many, thus Stiles’ indefinite ban from company gift exchanges.

“I’m good, McCall, now get back in the game!” _Tweet_. The entire cabin startles at the sound, ratcheting up their collective nerves about flying today; especially, when they witness the crazies on board and in a trusted position of authority. More than a few eyes shift to the open exit in contemplation of fleeing the plane.

Coach notices the open exit door and the people standing out of their seats. The plane is hardly ready for final check. “What’s the hold up, Cupcake? We are next up to taxi. Get these people in their seats and do the spiel…” His animated gestures of indicating exits and operating oxygen masks is a bit absurd, but Stiles gets it.

Coach waits for Stiles to acknowledge the command, _tweets_ , then gives a thumb to a ground crewman and begins securing the only open exit to Stiles’ freedom from the Argents and Hales.

A furious Allison swings him around to face her, but she is looking over his shoulder to the Hales and whispers in a strained voice, knowing the werewolves can hear, “Listen up; I declare a cease fire, on account of the circumstances. Whether your pack knowingly boarded this plane with hunters, or not; does not matter.” She flashes an angry glare at her mother and continues, “There will be no harm to any person or werewolf by our family on board. The same goes for your pack. In the event that there is, this accord is broken. We will protect ourselves. But know that you are more than endangering your secret; you are endangering innocents’ lives. Do you agree to these stipulations for your pack to enter a temporary truce?”

Allison waits for the alpha’s terse nod, and then focuses back on Stiles, “Idiot! They are your responsibility now. Any and all assistance that the Hales require on this flight falls on your head. Keep them in line or you’re fired.”

With a hard shove, Stiles staggers toward his doom. He reaches seat by seat to make his way to the Hales side and show them to their seats.

An authoritative voice behind him sweetly tells her parents to sit the hell down. Stiles can feel the frozen blizzard at his back as the Argents reluctantly comply.

_I wonder if I still have time to shimmy down the landing gear and have Greenberg smuggle me through the baggage system to cover my trail._ The idea of pressing his balls to the wheel shaft stops his escape plans from going any further. 

Before Peter or Derek can jump him to claim dibs, Cora Hale butts them out of the way and untangles her duffle straps from her shoulder.

Resigning to carry the heavy load, Stiles holds out his arm, still hunched over like an old man and shuffles closer to take it. Instead of burdening the invalid, she slams the heavy bag into Derek’s stomach as he flanks her to try and approach Stiles with glowing eyeballs glued to the finger marks at his intended’s throat.

Derek’s hurt puff of air is satisfying, but Stiles grimaces as he realizes Cora has hit is a little too far south, reminding him of his own testicular agony. “It will be alright, Stiles. He heals remarkably fast and you do too- with a little Hale lovin’.”

“Magic werewo-“

Cora quickly interrupts Stiles, “Yes, but you’re not exactly a hundred percent ordinary human either.”

“ _What?_ Uh, last time I checked I don’t have a glowing dimmer switch in my eyes or puppy fangs. And I have never desired to soak a guy’s hand for a drop of blood.” Stiles turns an angry glare at the two Hale men bringing up the rear of this odd ensemble.

“And yet you heal like us when we touch you. On your own you are as weak and susceptible as any other human.”

Stiles begins to argue, but Cora interrupts. “Later, let’s get this moving before that asshole with the whistle, starts blowing double time. Erica might eat his shins.”

She links her arm is his and supports his baby steps as the Hales shuffle closely behind, while keeping a close eye on the Argents. By the time Cora and he reach their scattered seats in economy class, he is walking with a straight spine and normal gate and relishing his pain free life.

Cora on the other hand is fighting to keep the stolen pain from crippling her onto her seat’s neighbor. “I had no idea. No more… cheap shots… during training, Derek… I swear.”

Derek, Peter, Boyd and Isaac all whoop in happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally the flight has been boarded. Stiles/Hale sandwich next chapter. Thanks for the comments.


End file.
